Fathers and Son
by Dobby's Socks
Summary: Every year since he was eleven years old, Barry Allen's done Father's Day twice. Set pre-series, mentions of one-sided Barry/Iris


**It's totally not the season for this, but I really find the relationships between Joe and Barry and Henry and Barry to be really interesting to look at. Just kind of the struggle that is being so unconditionally accepted by people you love and care about while still wanting to hold onto what once was. And I wonder in the cannon universe how Central City's resident speedster spends the holiday. On that note, this is set pre-series so no spoilers past the background information on the characters. Enjoy!**

**Dobby's Polka-Dotted Sock**

**Fathers and Son**

Iris jolted awake and slapped her hand down on the alarm, hoping she'd been fast enough. It had been a long night from what she'd gathered, though, so she wasn't too worried. Her father always slept like a rock after long nights on patrol or working a case.

With something of a childish grin she put on her slippers and tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen. Now, to get started: would Joe West want French Toast or blueberry pancakes?

Before she could get very far in her deliberations, however, she heard the front door swing open and shut—with a slam. "Barry," she groaned.

Who else could it be? Her former foster brother and best friend may have gotten his own apartment, but he still was the only other one with a key. And sure enough, tall and lanky Barry Allen somehow still looked small and contrite as he slinked into the kitchen, eyes downcast.

"Sorry," was the practically automatic response, with his usual adorable crooked grin patented to make her instantly forgive him. "It's really windy out."

"Good thing you didn't blow away then," she replied, allowing herself a slightly indulgent smile as she wrapped him in a hug. Barry was practically beaming at her when she pulled back, and Iris wondered not for the first time what she'd ever done to make a great guy like Barry so happy to receive a simple hug from her, and that was without considering his troubled childhood.

Especially when she did things like turn away and say in a teasing tone, "You're going to have to wait a bit if you want breakfast, but I know you're just here to do laundry anyway."

He scoffed. "I am not here to do laundry." It didn't sound very convincing, and one look over her shoulder was all it took for him to turn sheepish and scuff the toe of one shoe on the floor. It didn't take much to twist his arm. "Ok, I'm not here _just_ to do laundry. I thought I'd come help you with breakfast. For Joe."

That stopped her for a second. Sure, Barry had always helped her out when they were growing up together, but he'd moved out. Considering how touchy he could be about just how her father fit into his life at times, Iris had been unsure if he would be putting in an appearance at all this year.

"Really?" She didn't really need the confirmation, but it was sweet watching him gather up the courage for it.

"Well, yeah. I mean it's important to you and Joe…and me." His cheeks were tinted pink, and she'd always liked how she could read little things like that off of his face alone.

"Ok," she said, and then gestured at the various cabinets, the fridge, and the stove. "What are we making?" With another quick smile, Barry ducked around her and began picking things out—blueberry pancakes it was. Figured. "Alright, I'll measure everything out and you can put your clothes in the wash." She didn't think the machine would wake her dad seeing as it was in the basement.

She smiled to herself as he did as instructed; her dad would be happy enough with breakfast but all of them sharing it together would be a real treat. And this was much more fun with two.

Of course, she had to act stern when Barry returned and she caught him making a beeline for the bowl of blueberries she'd rinsed. "Those are for the pancakes," she scolded, even as he popped one into his mouth.

"Like you're going to miss one," he countered, and just to be cheeky plucked another out of the bowl.

"It won't be one at this rate," she couldn't help giggling, even as she placed the wooden spoon she'd been using for the batter down and took a step toward him, holding her hand out for it. Barry hesitated, then raised his arm up higher than she could hope to reach—when had he gotten so tall anyway?—and dropped it. He only just managed to catch the fruit on his tongue, because naturally the forensic scientist lost all accuracy and coordination when it came to himself.

Iris shook her head and snatched up the berry bowl, but one of his long arms was able to reach around her and grab another one. "No more berries, Barry!"

He was snickering at her unintentional pun, and fed up she simply smacked the stolen morsel out of his hand. "Hey!"

"I hope this isn't going to turn into another incident like the Syrup War," said her father's voice in the kitchen archway. They both jumped like a pair of teenagers caught out after curfew.

"Daddy! What are you doing up so early?" Well, there went any surprise.

"Baby, I've been setting my alarm every year since you two destroyed my kitchen to make sure that doesn't happen again," he explained, clearly amused by having outwitted them once again.

"That was over ten years ago," Barry couldn't seem to keep from pointing out a little petulantly.

"And you've been careful since then, but I didn't want blueberry juice all over the floor."

The younger man had a look of chagrin. "Sorry, Joe. Guess I got carried away. It's just been awhile since I've been over, you know, for stuff like this and I mean—"

Iris, who had been the one about to start the food-fight in the first place, recognized his floundering for what it was and interceded, walking up to her father and embracing him. "Happy Father's Day, Daddy."

Barry, taking his cue, echoed in his own softer way, "Happy Father's Day, Joe."

She felt the familiar scrape of his stubble as he kissed her cheek, and titled her head back to see him look over at Barry with a smile. "Welcome home, son."

OoO

Joe West was ordered to wait at the table while his two kids, biological and otherwise, finished up breakfast preparations. He was perfectly content to do so; nothing made a hard day at work better than some quality time with the two people he cherished most in this world.

It felt like old times, though there were some small differences. Barry was settled comfortably enough as the CCPD's forensics expert, but his perpetual tardiness and social fumbling hadn't earned him any points with the Captain. Joe had accordingly been doing his best to shield the young man by taking the task of reprimanding and lecturing on himself. He'd only been trying to protect him, but he'd accepted it was causing some strain on their relationship.

That Barry had chosen to come spend today of all days with them still, however, made him think things might not be so bad between them. Although he had to wonder if the reason for Barry's presence on Father's Day had more to do with the daughter of the house.

He didn't need his detective's badge to figure that one out. The kid was so blatantly smitten with Iris it was almost painfully obvious to everyone around him—except her. But Barry wasn't really a kid any more, nor was Iris, and he hoped the young man would get the courage to tell her soon.

Because as Iris approached the table laughing and carrying a plate heaping with blueberry pancakes and Barry followed right after with syrup, juice, and glasses for the three of them, Joe knew the greatest gift he could receive as a father would be seeing his children this happy every day.

"Looks good, you two."

It was a rare day he was off-duty, and Joe certainly didn't mind the time spent at home. But as the sun started to lower in the sky and Barry and he shared that look, he couldn't help a sigh as the young man excused himself and left the house. This he didn't mind so much either, just like every year before, but try as he might he couldn't understand.

OoO

He glanced at his watch and couldn't help deflating a little. Almost time. Things like this were what made Rob Carter truly hate his job, and being a guard at Iron Heights was no walk in the park to begin with. The long hours were nothing unusual. Hardened, often disturbed criminals you got used to. Emotional visits from friends and relatives were just something you learned to live with. But this?

Sure enough, his radio crackled. "Carter, he's here. Go get Allen."

With a heavy sigh he walked down the cell block coming to a stop outside the cell housing a somewhat rugged, but quiet man. He looked up at the sound of the lock being undone. "You've got a visitor." He didn't know why he always said that; they both knew who it was. It wasn't like this wasn't a regular occurrence, either.

But there was something twisted and broken with the world that Rob didn't want to think about if a kid could still come on Father's Day of all days to see the man who murdered his mother.

He led the prisoner through to the visiting room and motioned for him to sit in front of the glass partition, again not like the man didn't know how the whole setup worked already. Henry Allen could probably walk the route from his cell to this chair in his sleep.

And there was young Barry Allen on the other side. Rob Carter felt like he'd watched this kid grow up through a glass screen almost as much as the man he'd come to see. And now he watched as the visitor took up the phone on his side and managed a smile for a murderer. He could read the first words spoken and it made him look away. Maybe he had to be here, but he didn't have to let it get to him.

OoO

"Happy Father's Day," his son greeted, and Henry already felt like crying. But he reigned it in. He could do that at least, earn the praise in some measure.

A wan smile stretched his lips—sometimes it felt like Barry was the only reason he knew how to smile anymore. In a voice that had become gruff over the years he spoke, "It is now."

"How are you?" The boy—the man, really, however young and however much he didn't want to admit it—always seemed to ask this. To say he was fine would be a lie and to burden him with his melancholy reality any more than he already had would be unthinkable.

So he waved it off, "Never mind me, what about you? How's the job?"

"Uh, kind of so-so," his kid admitted, then hastened to add, "I like it, really. It's everything I've wanted to do since I can remember." _Since that night_, lay underneath. "I finally feel like I'm making a difference." _Because I couldn't do anything back then_, was the unspoken end of that sentence.

Henry knew these parts of his son so well, because in that regard the Allen men were one and the same.

Barry continued, perhaps to get away from the usual thoughts and memories, and it hurt to see how each visit just served as yet another reminder. But Henry was greedy to know every part of his son's life and to be a part as well that he listened eagerly. "I don't think Captain Singh likes me that much. I wasn't trying to get on his bad side, but Joe says I need to be better about that."

Joe. A name that always stirred such a torrid mixture of emotions in him; happiness, betrayal, nostalgia, and most potent of all jealousy. He didn't want to feel that way towards his old friend, but the detective's doubt in him combined with the very special role he had taken in Barry's life in his absence made it so difficult to remember that the years before Barry could come here by himself the man would always bring him on this day even if he didn't want to or should have been at home with his own kid.

All for Barry, the son Henry was still lucky to have after everything that had gone so wrong in his life. In their lives.

"Joe's usually right about those things," he heard himself advise, and his son grimaced.

"Yeah, I know."

"Everything still ok now you're working together? And with Iris?"

Barry brightened considerably at the mention of the girl's name. Henry sometimes wondered, but it was difficult to reconcile the young woman his son seemed so happy to talk about with the little girl he remembered coming for playdates. "Yeah, Iris is fine. Everything with Iris is fine," he restated, seeming to think over the phrasing again. It made him chuckle, which his kid pointedly ignored. "I just helped her make breakfast this morning for Joe."

Something tightened in his jaw as he replied, "Right."

Barry's smile faltered. "I couldn't bring any blueberry pancakes with me. You'll have to try them sometime, Iris makes the best—"

"Barry," Henry sighed.

"I know," the young man said firmly. Henry was silent as he seemed to gather his thoughts; there was no other support he could offer. Barry's free hand reached for something he'd apparently been holding on his lap until now and he looked up. "I did get you this."

He pressed it up to the glass to make it clear as possible. A simple card declaring the handwritten words _Happy Father's Day!_ in big, colorful lettering.

Henry raised his own hand to trace the words with a finger, and lost the battle with his tears. "Thanks, son," he choked out.

But Barry, his own eyes watery, shook his head. "You never have to say thank you."

"Oh no, I at least taught you to be more polite than that," he countered.

Through a pane of glass and a phone line, they shared a laugh, a moment of happiness. The most he could ask for, and something he'd always cherish.

**Ok, this one ended up a good bit sadder than the last. Apologies, but that's going to happen when Henry's involved. Poor guy. Anyway, I'd love to hear any thoughts, thanks for reading and please review!**


End file.
